


But You Didn't Need Me

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:16:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a visit from Sherlock's father, John learns that his husband's childhood was less than pleasant</p>
            </blockquote>





	But You Didn't Need Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ties of Blood and Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/331252) by [ImpishTubist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist). 



> Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse when Calvin is a little over a year old. This is the next installment in the Siger story arc ImpishTubist began with Burdens Of The Father and continued in Ties of Blood and Water, and both of those should be read first. This directly follows "Ties."  
> Title is from John Lennon's _Mother._

Calvin was finally sleeping, and the story Sherlock didn't want to tell could no longer be withheld. He spoke in short sentences and shorter words with nothing of his typical flair or drama, his eyes dull and fixed on empty space. The telling of the tale seeming to take everything out of him, tapping the last reserves of his strength. 

Into the silence around them tumbled words that painted pictures bleaker than anything John had ever imagined about his husband's childhood. A domestic nightmare revolving around a father who despised him; who mocked and scorned him, bullied and belittled him. When it was that words had turned to fists, Sherlock didn't say.

"He made me who I am," Sherlock said flatly, giving the impression of a well-rehearsed story, words learned by rote; John wondered how often he'd repeated it to himself. "I was born a genius. Siger - my father - taught me to focus it. Mycroft was too much like himself - more inclined to use his powers of persuasion than his intellect. But in me, my father found an apt and willing pupil." 

So that was it, then. Sherlock felt himself indebted to his father because he _Made me who I am;_ Siger made Sherlock feel that he _owed_ him for teaching him how to use his intellect. And that was the brilliance, the _cruelty_ of Siger Holmes. No matter how desperately Sherlock wanted to be rid of him, wanted nothing to do with him, Siger would never allow his son to be free of him because - Sherlock's voice, attitude and posture seemed to say - _Who would I be without him?_

"I don't know," Sherlock said finally, after a long pause, "how he found me last year. Or why he waited so long to come back. Lestrade..." he blinked slowly and shook his head. 

John watched him from across the room, keeping his distance though he longed to go to him - he understood Sherlock's need to maintain at least the illusion of privacy; he'd kept these things from John for a reason and the least John could do, now that the secrets were no longer his to keep, was grant him the courtesy of not burdening him with his pity.

"Lestrade...?" John prompted when Sherlock didn't continue.

Sherlock shook his head mutely.

John shifted his feet and crossed his arms. "And he wants Cal?"

Sherlock's voice was a dull monotone. "He wants to meet his grandson. He wants to see how I am 'wasting his money this time.' He wants what he thinks should belong to him - and now that Calvin carries the Holmes name..."

John stood up, his decision made. "Then we'll move. We'll get out of here."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"God _dammit,_ Sherlock!" John whirled to face him, arms held tightly around himself to keep from flailing, lashing out at his own helplessness, to keep from shouting and waking Cal. "Don't call me ridiculous! He's a madman, he knows where we live and he's after our _son!_ Don't sit there with your face half-bashed-in and tell me _I'm_ being absurd."

"You are being absurd." Sherlock looked up at him from where he was curled on the sofa, face slack. The bandage on his temple was as white as his skin, the angry red mark splashed down his cheek glared in the low light of the flat. His voice was expressionless, his eyes dull. "Where could we go?"

"Away. Somewhere. Out of London."

Sherlock shook his head and looked away. "Mycroft will always know where I am."

John gaped at him. "He wouldn't tell your father."

Sherlock gave a sad half-smile, not taking his eyes from the crib in the corner where Calvin lay sleeping. "Perhaps not."

John came and knelt on the floor by the sofa, reaching up to take Sherlock's hands in his, trying to get his husband to look at him. He didn't, and John kissed his knuckles, head bent over his hands. 

"Sherlock," he said finally, his voice coming out strange, a deadly certainty weighing heavily on his chest. "If he ever shows up here again, if he ever touches you again, I think I would kill him."

Sherlock was in motion before he'd finished speaking, his long hands cupping John's face, pulling him up, pressing their foreheads together painfully, drawing in a sharp, ragged breath. Sherlock shook his head frantically, their noses bumping together. "No."

John fisted his hands in Sherlock's dressing gown, holding him close, his hands perfectly steady. "He's a monster, love, I don't care he's your father, I can't let him--"

" _No._ John. You can't. There wouldn't be anything I could do for you. They'd take you away. They'd take you away from me and Calvin. _Please,_ John, promise me." He pulled away to look at John, his eyes shining fever-bright. "You must promise me. Don't do anything, just let it go."

John lifted careful fingers to Sherlock's face, just brushing the dressing over the cut. Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth and wrapped strong fingers around his wrist.

"Please, John. I want to grow old beside you, not visiting you in prison."

John bent his head again, blinking quickly to banish the tears of pure frustration and heartache. Whenever Sherlock was reduced to speaking in sentimental terms...he shook his head slowly and squeezed Sherlock's hand. 

"All right. But this is fucking ridiculous. It's unacceptable. You do realize that, right, Sherlock? You don't think this is what families are supposed to do to each other, do you? I shouldn't have to wish I had a bodyguard to take my son out to the park and no decent father would _ever_ lift a hand to his son. Do you realize what it does to me, seeing you like this? Whatever this is between you and your father it's not just between the two of you anymore, you can't just chin up and carry on and pretend it only concerns you. All right? I'll promise not to do anything stupid but you've got to promise me you'll think about that. For Calvin's sake. All right, Sherlock?"

"All right, John." 

"And we're getting a new security system installed, and I'm going to have words with Mycroft. For all the good that will do."

Sherlock squeezed his hands, and John looked up and met his eyes. They stared at each other, unblinking, until Sherlock tugged at him, exhausted but demanding. John shook his head, standing and pulling Sherlock up beside him. "No sofa tonight. Let's get Cal and go to bed."

Sherlock wrapped one arm around him, holding him still. The other settled over John's heart as Sherlock matched his breath to the rise and fall of John's chest. After one hundred and twenty beats of John's heart, Sherlock said, "I will never harm Calvin."

"I know you won't." John wrapped his hand around Sherlock's wrist. "Because you're a good man."

"Or you," Sherlock continued, his pulse quickening beneath John's hand as he licked his lips, looking down at him. "I love you."

John blinked, and felt himself start to smile. It'd been awhile since he'd last heard those words, the day after Calvin was born. "I know you do." 

"Good." Sherlock relaxed fractionally, bending his head to kiss John lightly, then turning to pull him over to Calvin. 

The child was sleeping soundly and barely stirred when Sherlock bent to pick him up. He held him tight to his chest and John settled a hand on his downy head, watching Sherlock and remembering Calvin's birthday, how awkwardly Sherlock had held him, how panicked he had been, and now...

...Sherlock was watching him, questioning, and John inclined his head, gesturing to the stairs. 

 

John woke an hour later, curled around Sherlock, blinking slowly as the soft murmurs he'd thought were part of his dream continued on as he roused. Sherlock was speaking to their son, lying in his bedside bassinet. John couldn't make out the words but he almost didn't want to; it seemed to him that Sherlock spoke, and Calvin would, at times, respond, in a language all their own, just meant for the two of them. John lifted his head to see Sherlock's arm outstretched, hand resting on Calvin's back, the child beginning to stir. 

The tenderness in Sherlock's voice made John's heart ache and he pressed his lips to the back of Sherlock's neck before murmuring, "I'll get the bottle," and slipping out of bed. 

When he returned Sherlock was sitting up against the headboard, knees drawn up, Calvin nestled in his favourite position in his father's arms. Sherlock looked up at John and opened his hand for the bottle. John slid in next to him and offered Cal his finger to cling to. With Cal growing so quickly, he'd come to cherish all the more these midnight moments when he was still their baby.

Sherlock leaned his head on John's. "Perhaps we should hire Lestrade to be Calvin's personal bodyguard. What do you think he's earning at the Yard, could we match it?"

John laughed softly. "If he came to live with us and we factored in room and board? Probably. I'll ask him in the morning."

"You do that." Sherlock's voice held a smile but John thought he might not have been entirely joking. 

 

"Christ he's gotten so big," John said as Sherlock laid Cal back down to sleep. 

"And yet he's still so small. He is a fraction of his adult height and weight. His brain is still developing, and yet it's as active as ours. Well, as yours, perhaps." John nudged Sherlock, expecting to receive that teasing grin of his, but Sherlock was still musing. "We hardly know him, he hasn't even existed for two years. It doesn't seem possible that he should be so...complete."

Silence extended out from Sherlock's words, and John wanted to hold on to them, hold on to this moment, wrap himself up in it and allow himself to feel safe, to believe that it would never end. Sleep beckoned and he lay his head back down on his pillow, draping his arm over Sherlock and murmuring, "He's pretty perfect, isn't he."

"In every quantifiable way...yes." Sherlock turned to kiss him, once, twice, and again on each closed eyelid before settling himself in with one hand once again resting gently on Calvin's back.


End file.
